When a rose bud is born... It slowly raises it's head...
Like wise was my tiny baby s sleeping closed eyes.. deep in sleep..

The stark deep red rose bud comes out of the green...
The same was the brightness of my son... Spotless, shining, serene..

The bud blooms,
That bright, glowing, strong petals
Likewise was the skin of my son... Like a shining sun..

But alas we love the young buds a far too much
We cut it and put in in vase
I am here staring at a bud like that in a hospital,
From behind the glass wall I am staring both.... I am reading innocence of both...

In NICU, my son is sleeping, lost in between the pipes which is giving him life,
The bud too in the vase thinking of it's mother...yearning to be in arms of it's mother..
The *** that holds it's mother out side.. Is also waiting for it to return...maybe!!
May be scared to bloom another bud....
The pain of losing is thr for both of us...
To loose is easy
To live in uncertainty is not...

How does a new born baby feel...I  know not...
How to satisfy day old baby s hunger ....I know not..
How is a 6th day* celebration done I know not...
How does it feel to bathe a new born...I know not...

What I know though
Is that my new born is sleeping in NICU
I have been staring him from glass for past one month
I will wear clean, sterilized clothes am ushered to be near him..
For few seconds... Once in 24 hrs... My maternal love becomes alive...
Though I go near him, cameras are thr, I cannot touch him, I can feel his breathing..I can see him sleeping...
My hands behind..
Face covered with mask..
I gaze at him with blurred eyes,
I give him love of both his dad* and myself...

Just for that moment...
Both of us again stand behind that glass wall
We show our son to all those who pass by
We hide our tears behind our smiles..
We stand again in wait thr...

When I took my month old baby in my arms for first time....
He is still the same, he looks still the same...
How are these wonders of universe, the creators..
How can a colorful life become color-less..
Each day, each moment some where a new bud is born..
A new creation everyday...

Sparkle in Wisdom

in the story, a newborn is placed in a mailbox.  we know of no harm and the story itself is very casual.  an angel tells us the job of an angel is to fly in front of the master when the master is ****.  we try to hang on every word.  the mailbox is the only mailbox in heaven.  our questions turn our stomachs.  some of us become hormonal and some of us identify pedophiles by future rote.  we head home in a pack.  a siren behind us wails a moment before being joined.

To move beyond my darkened confines,
and gaze at the world now by light defined.

Alive outside, on a day with the sky so blue,
white clouds, green leaves, shades of every hue.

Sweet air to breathe since my early birth,
of touch and scent - the things on earth.

The sound of children filling my ear,
of parents and loved ones soon drawing near.

To gaze in wonder at my own worldly visage,
now reflected, at last, in a smooth mirror's image.

But especially, I want to behold my mother,
whose meaning to me is like no other.  

The face that is God and the universe for me,
whose vision means love, and allows me to be.

To sense the warmth of that gentle caress,
that calms me down and soothes my distress.

And nourish beneath her soft velvet *****,
gaze up at those eyes, whose intent I must fathom.

It is nature's way that she decides my soul's fate,
that I die alone , or make heaven wait.

I lie here, as God intended to be,
for better or worse, shouldn't he judge me?

A chance of nature was how I was created,
but now that I'm here, should my life be debated?

The right of the living is my simple defense,
to play out my time regardless of consequence.

Perhaps a future of suffering, sorrow or pain,
or the joy and comfort where love remains.

But, whatever the reason of my earthly flight,
I come from the Father to claim that right.

नन्ही कलि जैसे संसार को देखने के लिए,
अपना सर उठाती है,
ठीक वैसे ही मेरे नन्हे की आँखें थी टुक टुकी वाली खामोश,
नींद की आगोश में/

नयी अनछुई कलि की लाली, सुर्ख रंग की,
पहली बार संसार में आती है,
ठीक वैसे ही मेरे चुनमुन की कांति थी,
बेदाग, चमकदार/

कलि का वह कवच में से निकलना,
वह चटकदार, तेज वाली उसकी पंखुडियां,
ठीक वैसे ही थी मेरे ठाकुर की काया ,
सूर्य की किरण जैसी../

पर हमें नन्ही कलि से प्यार होता है..कुछ ज्यादा ही...,
काट के उसे सजा लेते हैं गमलों में
वैसे ही एक कलि को निहार रही हूँ मैं अस्पताल में,
कांच की दीवार के पीछे से ...मैं दोनों की मासूमियत पड़ रही हूँ,

NICU में मेरा बेटा सो रहा है,, नालियों के बीच, मशीनों के बीच खोया हुआ है,
कलि भी गमले में शायद सोच रही है, अपनी माँ के अंचल को तरस रही है,
उसका पौधा भी बहार शायद उसकी राह तक रहा है,
अगली कलि को खिलाने से डर रहा हो,
खोने का एहसास उसे भी है मुझे भी..खोना आसान है, असमंजस में जीना कठिन है........

नन्हा सा बिटउ पहले पहेल कैसा होता है मुझे मालूम नहीं,
एक दिन का बच्चा भूक से बिलकता कैसे शांत होता है माँ की गोद में मुझे मालूम नहीं,
एक हफ्ते के बेटे की छट्टी कैसे होती है, मुझे एहसास नहीं,
पहली बार पानी में नहलाना कैसा होता है मुझे पता नहीं...

पता है तो यह की मेरा नन्हा बेटा NICU में सोया हुआ था,
एक महिना मैं ने उसे कांच से निहारा है,
साफ़, कीटाणु रहित कपडे पहेना के,
माँ के नसीब होता है चौबीस घंटे में दो क्षण का सुकून,
जब कांच की दीवार के अन्दर जाकर एहसास उसका ले पाती है,
सांस उसकी महसूस कर पाती हैं,
हाथ पीछे बांधे, कैमरे की कैद में, मैं उसे देख लेती...
फेस- मास्क लगे होंटों से मैं उसे पुचकार के, आँखों की रौशनी धूमिल होती आसुंओं के पीछे से,
अपने बेटे को उसके पिता का और मेरा प्यार दे आती...

बस उस क्षण के लिए फिर हम दोनों,
कांच की दीवार के पीछे से, हर आने जाने वाले को अपना मासूम दिखाते,
आसुंओं को मुस्कराहट के पीछे छिपाए खड़े रहते,

एक महीने का बेटा जब अपने हाथ में लिया, आज तक वोह वैसा ही नज़र आता है,
ना जाने श्रुश्ठी कैसे रच जाती है...
कैसे रंगीन और रंग- हीन हो जाती है,
हर आते जाते दिन में हर समय कहीं न कहीं एक नन्ही कलि खिल जाती है.

Sparkle in Wisdom
2009

"Gabrielle" was a name falling from my grandmother's lips,
as I was rushed to the NICU, the doctors asked my name,
and my grandmother uttered a word that was more like a promise.

Gabrielle is the female form of Gabriel, the angel that brought the news of the birth of Jesus to townspeople, like how my grandmother brought the news of my birth to the hospital waiting room, where my ten year old brother was beginning to understand what it meant to be a man, and my other grandma threw a fit about my new moniker.

The name Gabrielle means "gift from god" and my life itself was a gift as no one knew how long I'd be around to live it, the odds of a tiny baby hooked up to wires and tubes. God gave me the gift of life, as I was born without breathe, my lungs not ready for this world, he gave me a second chance, and I opened up my mouth and cried.

Gabrielle meant a name, and a name meant a life, a family, a place in the world.

Growing up I loathed my name, hopping between nicknames, wishing I had been given anything else for a title, but now I know I would not trade it for the world.

To reject my name is to erase the prayer that fell from my grandmother's lips the moment I was born.

Joyful boy bundled in blue,
Nine months and a day mommy carried you,
Nine months and a day when I was due,
Out you came with a purplish hue.

Your twin sister soon followed suit,
However, she came out, pink, plump, and cute.
Beautiful you were, a work of art,
You had my love right from the start.

Perfect little eyes, fingers, nose, and toes,
My heart full of both sadness and excitement,
Thought I might implode.

A few months before,
In two my heart tore,
When the doctor informed me,
A stillborn you'd be,
Your little heart didn't function at full capacity.

But even with your purple hue,
Here, with me just for a few,
Precious Earth angel, mine you were,
I'm sure the Lord God would concur.

Just for me, I felt you held out,
Your tiny little heart beat so rapidly,
The cry let out was quite lively ,
In mommy's arms right where you belonged,
For nine months and a day to hold you I had longed.

Momentarily, the nurses and doctors had fawned over you
Then quickly they whisked my love away to the NICU.
Bundle of blue, your outlook was bleak,
Surprised I was you even let out a squeak,
For you were so very tiny and weak.

So daddy and I packed you up and took you home,
To steal every moment of this precious time alone,
No breathing machines, painful needles, or drugs,
Just you, me, daddy, little sister, and a sea of endless hugs.

My little boy, bundled in blue,
You stayed with us 48 hours plus two.
I listened to every rapid heartbeat, right until your last,
I imagined you'd return to a sea of stars so vast.

We captured every moment in photos and on film,
The entire two days death was at the helm,
My little joy, bundled in blue,
For Nine months, a day, and forever, mommy will carry you.

It begins the same way it ends.
Fluorescent combinations of photonic crystals,
Burning beneath my skin, into my gaping soul.
These are my lights.

Gripping tightly to is base, holding it steady,
Peer through its open lense.
Record each and every moment.
This is my camera, so let it commence.

Take 1.
A mother wails as her baby rolls out.
Physicians stagger in, along with nurses.
NICU is now home to the baby girl who
Came 2 months before she was due.
02/01/1995 - the unforgettable date that
I changed my family’s lives.

Take 2.
Fast forward to when everyone else’s
Nightmare’s become my reality.
The thoughts took over my anatomy,
Constricting blood vessels in my brain
And with every heartbeat those enlarged
Vessels collided with my skull – throbbing.
A rainbow of pasty pills dissolved on my tongue,
Releasing their chemicals into my ocean-like blood stream.

Take 3.
Every waking day had not only become a
Physical struggle but in fact a psychological endeavor.
The thoughts hindered my perception of reality,
Just as cumulous clouds darken the suns light.
Back seat riding with my negativity leading
Me through a tunnel of self-destruction.

Take 4.
Addicted.
To the bottle, the drugs, and the razor blade.
Addicted.
The dullness of the liquor,
The euphoric journey the drugs took me on and,
The intoxicating aroma the blood gave off
As it poured down my wrist
Shaped my addictions to that of self-annihilation.
Those were my Actions.
It ends the same way it began.
Fluorescent combinations of photonic crystals
Burning beneath my skin, into my gaping soul.
Now this is the end.

If my life was a Motion Picture;
I would go back and film it again,
But this time validating true happiness.

when I was a child,
my mother was never there.

I believe that her absence
was a factor in my fate,
part of the reason that
I went searching for love
in all of the wrong places.

I believe that her absence
is one of the reasons why
I became a mother so young.

it wasn't her fault, not entirely.
it wasn't fully my fault either,
nor the fault of the man
who had fathered my child.
it was no one's fault.

I was pregnant, and placing blame
couldn't change that fact.



I was still a child
when I learned that
my own child was
growing inside of me.

I was scared
and sad and lost.
I wasn't ready.

when they put that
cold goo on my belly,
and my son's little body
formed on that screen,

I already knew that I would
do anything for my child.
my son was my world
before he even entered it.



but before my son's eyes
opened on this planet,
tragedy struck.

I woke up in a hospital bed.
I was told that I was alive
and that my son was alive too.
an emergency C-section
was able to save him.

the first time that I saw him,
I wasn't allowed to hold him.
he had tubes coming from
every part of his tiny body,
and a ventilator was
breathing air into his lungs.
he looked so fragile, almost
like a porcelain doll.
it almost looked like
none of it was even real.

the NICU doctors
read me an entire book
of my son's diagnoses,
medical terms with words
too long for me to understand.

the only part that I heard was,
"you might want to start
saying your goodbyes."

I refused to say goodbye,
and my son refused to give up.



my baby was a fighter.
he beat the odds over
and over and over again.

he grew stronger and
healthier every day.

eventually, I was told
that I could take him home.
I was also told that his time
with me would be limited.



my son's father
read one page from
that long book of diagnoses,
and he was overwhelmed.
he walked out on us.
I wasn't angry at him.
I was overwhelmed too

but I wouldn't leave.
I would be there for
every moment of his life
and every breath that he took.

it was me and my son
against the world.
we were inseparable.

I read him books
every night before
I tucked him into bed,
even when he was
too young to understand me.

I kissed him on his forehead
and I told him that
I would never leave him.

I promised my baby
that I would be the mother
that I never got to have.



my son fought
harder than anyone
who I have ever known.

despite the hospitals
and the medicine
and the surgeries,
he was a happy baby.
he had no idea that he
wasn't like every other kid.

he laughed and he cried
and he smiled that big smile
when I held him close to me.



and then the day came
when I had to say goodbye.

I had that same
heartbreaking feeling
that I did when I first
learned of his existence.
I wasn't ready.
I would never be ready.

all that I have left of
my baby are photographs
and memories and a
small, pale green urn
sitting on my dresser.

my son is gone.
my baby left this earth
not even a few years
after he had entered it.
my only child
was taken from me.



I still have these strong
maternal instincts.
I feel a need to protect
someone who no longer
needs my protection.

I am missing a child
who will never come back to me.
I am broken.
I am so broken.

this gaping hole
in my life will
never be filled.




I was a child
with no mother,

and now
I am a mother
with no child.

from The Blood You Don’t See Is Fake (poems, barton smock, September 2013)

[wilderness mantra]

sister Cain falls in love with me through her brother.  
     I physically blame her with both hands.  

she has left my brother’s lips  
on the lord.  

I try to kiss her at a baseball game
but am drunk
and kiss instead
my male
abuser.  

violence begins with me.  


[NICU]

in the story, a newborn is placed in a mailbox.  we know of no harm and the story itself is very casual.  an angel tells us the job of an angel is to fly in front of the master when the master is ****.  we try to hang on every word.  the mailbox is the only mailbox in heaven.  our questions turn our stomachs.  some of us become hormonal and some of us identify pedophiles by future rote.  we head home in a pack.  a siren behind us wails a moment before being joined.  

~

from father, footrace, fistfight (poems, barton smock, June 2014)


[object permanence]

rabbit
named
vertigo


[my son the ******]

online I find instructions on how to make my own scarecrow. I wake my sister and have her put on her pajamas while I take the overcoat my father is using for a blanket. when we’re an error of a mile from home I have to push the ATV with my sister on it. she is crying about flooding and I’m telling her what the scarecrow will look like. she wants it to have a cape. because my son isn’t born yet, there’s not much to like.


[orison]

gaze upon our father
create a woman
and suddenly

know
to leave us


[collapse]

how
on a clear day  
my father
is the face
of absence.

how what I mean
cuts the finger

my mother
sips.

how porch blood
is not the same blood
the body
faints with.

how copperhead, how rattlesnake, how lisp

says I myth
my sister
who is still

vanishing
to shoplift
god

from the thunderstorm
we gave her.

~

from The Women You Take From Your Brother (poems, barton smock, August 2014)


[weaponry]

after passing many dogs
with more skin
than fur, that seem to be
the starving men
of my dreams
if the starving men
of my dreams
had been brought
to the same place
to die
if that place
were me,

the man who sold
my brother
a gun

goes

as a father
praying over
a solitary
son

to his knees
in front
of a larger cage
and I see
the smallest elephant
and I keep
seeing it
as if I’m the only
one who can
though I know
it’s there, the sound it makes

like nothing sick, nothing animal-

I am not the brother
I’m the size of.


[spoils]

a distraction that doesn’t explode. I’d say children but nostalgia is still a child. head, I need a volunteer. god’s reply in the form of a sext. a brick taken for a sponge by a bout of sleepwalking in someone I can shower.


[flatfoot]

the missing man’s yo yo
between the hours
of this and that a.m.
was no doubt cared for
by meadow mice
our estimate would be
by all of them
what a service
they’ve provided
we would advise

forget the tree, the tire swing, and with these mice

forget the man

~

from Misreckon (poems, barton smock, December 2014)


[end psalm]

god had an earache and I heard thunder. I learned to shrink into the smallness of my brain. I associated money with my father’s funny bone. my mother with the dual church of hide and seek. I went on to have a son with special needs. he cried once. cried milk.


[form psalm]

I find the boy’s name on a list in another boy’s diary. a gun goes off in a dream I don’t have anymore. the animal gets between my son and my son’s imaginary friend. the root of its insomnia is not man but the fear of personification. god’s gone when the story starts. to war, to war.


[inquiry psalm]

when it comes to humoring
me
by name
my memories
draw a blank.

I had a daughter
and three
sons.

my hands
could’ve been
the hands
of an umpire.

in the untouched church
of suicide
was the untouched
church
of *******.

it’s like seeing
a television
on tv. the comedians
and their failed
sisters.

do your thoughts
still take
the temperature
of god?

~

from Eating the Animal Back to Life (poems, barton smock, July 2015)


[sandbox]

even with her fingers in her ears, she can hear the toy horse whipped. if we don’t have food, we can’t pray. my father was hired for his quickness, his hands

to salt
the rain. grief is a guard dog from the permanent circus.


[sightings]  

****, kid, your poems.  I took a page from your father’s thesaurus and played scrabble with god.  I came back knowing your name as code for omission.  your mother didn’t break a chair over my back because the chair didn’t break.  I worked it off in a building from the wrong twin city.  after that, my homeless jailer became your brother’s landlord.  your brother he played citizen’s parole to my arrest.  borrowed my hat on account it wasn’t full of money.  like most men, we were in love.  he had a note he’d written that would appear before a big fight it said don’t let my suicide beat you to death.


[ones]

the book is a mourning vessel for what its reader stands to lose. I have a father for every type of silence.

If its time to make love I’m ready for some history loving.
But when they said I had a bouncing babe in the rotisserie oven.
I said that you did not have to tell me that I had a belly.
Because in most foreign cultures it was a sign someone is wealthy
They retorted that my babe must be in nicu, I told them frick you.
But it sounded more like the word people use when they want to do.
They got offended and stormed off, but how did they expect me to reply.
Did they expect me to apologize to them as if I am that kind of guy.
Smile, and say hi, I’ll work so my belly goes down from nine months to one.
The worst is when they are a stranger and initiate the conversation.
Then I comment on their lack of hair, and say they are aging gracefully.
One person who I told this turned from condescending to a raging face to me.
He whispered my belly needed deliverance, I replied that what his hair needed was dead.
I thought that based on his comments about me it had to be said.
They left on a huff from the train, I’d just thought I would share some of my pain.
Such people need to be taught manners so they are not rude like that again.

This is not how I thought I’d meet you, my son.
In your plastic bubble, I don’t feel like a mom.

Can’t hold you, or feed you, or rock you to sleep.
These are not the memories I expected to keep.

So quiet and fragile, “It’s my fault,” I weep.
Each night we go home with an empty car seat.

“Can I hold him?” I ask. She says, “You may soon, just not today.”
“Maybe tomorrow will be the day.”

Even though I only get to behold you for now,
It fills my life with bliss just to see you in sight.
Here, I patiently await to give you a kiss.

I cradle my pump until my body is dry,
Filling the freezer with my supply.

“Liquid gold,” they say, to help fix you.
Drink up, my sweet boy, it’s all I can do.

Amongst the fear, the hell, and the anguish,
There is light, a magic, and hope that all will be well.

Late at night, amidst tubes, the beeps, and the wires,
We form a bond that could start fires.

After seven days of life is the day I finally get to hold you—
So little and fragile, my emotions running wild,
I dare not take a breath, just in case it might hurt you.

Nurses whisper and sing you a sweet lullaby,
They hold my hand, “It’ll be okay, mama,” as I cry.

They touch you tenderly, you’re theirs on loan,
Filling you with love until you’re ready to come home.

When we finally leave, it’s bittersweet.
We’ll never forget those we meet.

I’ll never forget those sterile walls, hands washed raw,
I’ll hear the beeps long after leaving those halls.

Joy and nerves as we drive towards home,
We’ll be sure to tell you about your start in life, my sonshine.

One in seven need the help of the NICU—
I just didn’t think it would be you.

Sometimes I feel like I am about to figure out the punchline.

Everyone stops and watches.
Waits to see if we can end the charade.

Here—
Let me try—

Infant dies in NICU, never gets to question the nature of its existence.

No—
Wait—

Three year old child chokes on toy labeled not for children under the age of four.

No—
Hold up—

Six year old drowns in pool; parents too ****** up to notice.

No, no—
****—

It doesn’t have that ring of humor to it, that can’t be it.

I can feel it though, the laughter on the tip of my tongue waiting to boil over.

Here—
Let me try again—

Nine year old finds his parent’s candy, suffocates on his own *****.

No, no, no —
I’m close, I can feel it—
How about—

12 year old child plays with power tools, electrocuted.

No, no, no—
No, no—

21 year old man drives drunk, crashes into cemetery.

No, no, no—
No, no—
No, no—

25 year old man gets ******* sick of trying to see what’s on the other side of the painting, takes a bath in his own blood.

No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no—

Wait—
Here—

ENTIRE GENERATION spends their whole lives trying to distract themselves from the fact of their mortality.

None Survive.